


Growing Up Without

by queercapwriting (queergirlwriting)



Series: Of Chemicals and First Loves [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Bus Kids - Freeform, F/F, FitzSkimmons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 04:26:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18403076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queergirlwriting/pseuds/queercapwriting
Summary: prompt from honorary-asexual: “How about fitzsimmons helping daisy deal with the effects of being raised in the foster system (and how it was harder because of not being white or straight)”





	Growing Up Without

It was in the little things.

The little ways she could never, fundamentally, seem to bring herself to believe that anyone wanted her.

It was in the little ways she never, no matter how big the smiles of her friends and family are, could quite bring herself to believe that no one was angry with her, that no one was on the verge of casting her out.

It was in the big ways that she ran away and hid, genuinely believed that ripping herself away from the team was what everyone would want, rather than her sticking around and letting herself be a complete mess around them.

Letting herself be loved.

It was in the way she watched them sometimes, sad and withdrawn and insecure; the way she started fiddling with her fingers when she thought they were too wrapped in each other to notice her insignificant little tics.

“You know you’re gorgeous, Daisy,” Jemma told her when she noticed, because it was also in the little ways she never seemed to know that. Because she was ‘exotic’ enough to make the boys (hell, and everyone else) interested, but never actually white enough to make them want to stay.

“Jemma’s right. Scientifically. I mean, it’s something that we can just quantitatively state as fact,” Fitz babbled on purpose, because he knew it made Daisy smile, and because he wanted her to know that he knew that she knew that he knew that she didn’t ever believe it, not really, when someone called her, inside and out, gorgeous.

Not exotic and not passing and not ‘just enough of this without being too much of that.’

No.

No qualifications, no fetishizing. 

Just… gorgeous.

He knew she wouldn’t believe it, so he rambled on about it until she smiled.

Until she smiled and stopped picking at her own fingers and crawled across the bed to where Fitzsimmons were laying, their papers and tablets spread out around them, transforming their bedroom into a little research lab.

The contained chaos of it all comforted Daisy more than she’d ever care to admit.

So they tried to make sure she always had it.

Fitz kissed her temple, taking special care to kiss his way across her canvas of faded scars and old stitches, just like he did with Jemma.

“You know,” Jemma observed as she watched them through half-closed eyelids. She and Fitz had talked this through extensively, but she wanted to keep the suggestion casual, for Daisy’s sake. 

Because they knew. They knew.

“We were thinking it’d be lovely if you wanted to bring more of your things in here. To our room. I think we already traumatized Mack as much as we can, asking for this king-sized bed and what not. So asking for some help transferring more of your things here couldn’t really be that bad for him.”

Daisy smirked in memory of their friend’s attempt at professionalism when they’d requisitioned a new bed for the three of them, but frowned when Jemma’s words really sank in.

“You mean you want me to move in?”

“You can keep your own bunk, of course you can,” Fitz chimed, still kissing her face like she was something to be worshiped instead of something to be discarded. “You can do whatever you’d like. But,” he pulled back so he could see her face. “It’d be lovely to have you spend more time here. If you’d want to.”

If she wanted.

None of her life had ever been what she wanted.

Or, rather, her life had been what she’d wanted in response to what other people had wanted from her.

She looked at Fitz’s face. He didn’t look like he wanted anything from her.

She looked at Jemma’s face. She didn’t look like she wanted anything from her.

And Daisy didn’t run. She knew they’d follow: it was a rare and new feeling, to know she was that cared for.

She didn’t yell. She knew they’d listen quietly: it was a terrifying and different feeling, to know they wanted to hear her.

She didn’t lash out and try to hurt herself because her presence was already hurting them enough. She knew they’d grab her hands and hold her steady, hold her close, hold her safe; it was the headiest, scariest feeling she’d ever felt, to know they’d rather that she hurt them accidentally than hurt herself on purpose.

So Daisy just… sobbed.

Because she wasn’t used to knowing any of these things. Wasn’t used to be sure that she was wanted, for her, just her. She wasn’t used to the horrifying sensation of knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the person - the people - in bed with her wouldn’t leave.

So she sobbed, and Jemma and Fitz didn’t miss a beat.

Jemma crawled behind her and held her, not caring that Daisy’s flailing spilled Jemma’s meticulous research off the bed.

Fitz knelt in front of her and let her sob into his chest, not caring that her tears and snot were soaking through his shirt and undershirt all the way down to his binder.

All either of them cared about was her.

Making sure she felt held, and safe, and wanted.

Because they knew - she would talk about it when she’d had too much to drink, or when they were laying in bed late at night, sated and naked and together, or after those long, long days on the job that left all of them shaking with everything they almost lost - they knew how Daisy had grown up.

And Jemma knew was it was like to have sometimes overly-doting parents, and Fitz knew what it was like to have a father refuse to call him son.

But neither of them knew what it was like to grow up like Daisy, and - just when she thought she was learning who she was - to find out that the legacy of her birth was atrocity and experimentation and vengeance and flesh torn apart in her name.

To be threatened because she liked girls and to have nonsense, cruelly fake mockeries of words thrown at her because she was an Asian kid in white home after white home, passing until she didn’t, relatively safe until she, very distinctly, wasn’t. Which always seemed to be a quick transition.

So they held her, and they were patient, and they were firm, and they refused, above all else, to let go.

“I’m gonna go back to my bunk,” she sniffled when her breath finally returned to her, her voice cracked like she hadn’t used it in years.

“You’re welcome to stay the night, Daisy,” Jemma whispered.

Daisy wiped her face on Fitz’s shirt with soft, trembling sass, and she turned to look at Jemma with wide, terrified eyes.

“No, I meant. I meant, I’m gonna start bringing some more of my stuff over here. To keep here. With you. With us. If that’s still what you want?”

“Absolutely it is.”

“Always, Daisy. Always.”


End file.
